The rolling ftreams with watery grief fhall flow,

And winds fhall moan aloud

-

35

when loud they blow. Henceforth, as oft' as autumn fhall return,

The dropping trees, whene'er it rains, fhall mourn;
The feafon quite fhall ftrip the country's pride,
For 'twas in autumn Blouzelinda dy’d.

Where-e'er I gad, 1 Blouzelind shall view,

Woods, dairy, barn, and mows, our paffion knew.
When I direct my eyes to yonder wood,
Fresh rising forrow curdles in my blood.
Thither I 've often been the damfel's guide,
When rotten sticks our fuel have fupply'd ;
There I remember how her faggots large
Were frequently thefe happy fhoulders charge.
Sometimes this crook drew hazel-boughs adown,
And stuff'd her apron wide with nuts fo brown i
Or when her feeding hogs had mifs'd their way,
Or wallowing 'mid a feast of acorns lay;
Th' untoward creatures to the ftye I drove,
And whistled all the way or told my love,

If by the dairy's hatch I chance to hie,
I fhall her goodly countenance efpy;
For there her goodly countenance I 've seen,
Set off with kerchief starch'd and pinners clean,
Sometimes, like wax, fhe rolls the butter round,
Or with the wooden lily prints the pound.
Whilom I 've seen her skim the clouted cream,
And prefs from fpungy curds the milky ftream:
But now, alas! these ears shall hear no more
The whining fwine furround the dairy door;

VOL. I.

G

40

45

55.

60

No

2

No more her care fhall fill the hollow tray,
To fat the guzzling hogs with floods of whey.
Lament, ye fwine, in grunting fpend your grief,
For you, like me, have lost your fole relief.
When in the barn the founding flail I ply,
Where from her fieve the chaff was wont to fly;
The poultry there will feem around to stand,
Waiting upon her charitable hand.

No fuccour meet the poultry now can find,
For they, like me, have loft their Blouzelind.
Whenever by yon barley-mow I pass,

Before my eyes will trip the tidy lafs.

I pitch'd the fheaves (oh, could I do fo now !),
Which the in rows pil'd on the growing mow.
There every deale my heart by love was gain'd,
There the fweet kifs my courtship has explain'd.
Ah, Blouzelind! that mow I ne'er shall fee,
But thy memorial will revive in me.

Lament, ye fields, and rueful fymptoms show;
Henceforth let not the fmelling primrose grow;
Let weeds, inftead of butter-flowers, appear,
And meads, instead of daifies, hemlock bear
For cowflips fweet let dandelions spread ;
For Blouzelinda, blithfome maid, is dead!
Lament, ye fwains, and o'er her grave bemoan,
And fpell ye right this verfe upon her stone:

Ver. 84.

65

70

7.5

80

85

90

"Pro molli violâ, pro purpureo narciffo, "Carduus & fpinis furgit paliurus acutis." VIRG. Ver. 90.

"Et tumulum facite, & tumulo fuperaddite carmen."

VIRG. "Here

Here Blouzelinda lies Alas, alas!

"Weep, fhepherds and remember flesh is grafs." GRUBBINOL.

Albeit thy fongs are fweeter to mine ear,
Than to the thirfty cattle rivers clear;
Or winter porridge to the labouring youth,
Or buns and fugar to the damfel's tooth;
Yet Blouzelinda's name fhall tune my lay,
Of her I'll fing for ever and for aye.

When Blouzelind expir'd, the wether's bell
Before the drooping flock toll'd forth her knell;
The folemn death-watch click'd the hour fhe dy'd,
And fhrilling crickets in the chimney cry'd;
The boding raven on her cottage fate,

And with hoarfe croaking warn'd us of her fate;
The lambkin, which her wonted tendance bred,
Dropp'd on the plains that fatal inftant dead;
'Swarm'd on a rotten flick the bees I spy'd,
Which erft I saw when goody Dobson dy'd.

How fhall I, void of tears, her death relate,
When on her darling's bed her mother fate!
Thefe words the dying Blouzelinda spoke,
And of the dead let none the will revoke:

Ver. 93.

"Tale tuum carmen nobis, divine poëta,

"Quale fopor feffis in gramine: quale per æftum. "Dulcis aquæ faliente fitim reftinguere rivo.

95

100

105

110

"Nos tamen hæc quocunque modo tibi noftra viciffim "Dicemus, Daphninque tuum tollemus ad aftra." VIRG. Ver. 96. An imitation of Theocritus.

"Mother, quoth fhe, let not the poultry need, And give the goose wherewith to raise her breed :

Amid the ducklings let her fcatter corn;

The fickly calf that's hous'd, be fure to tend,
Feed him with milk, and from bleak colds defend.

Yet ere I die fee, mother, yonder shelf,
There fecretly I've hid my worldly pelf.
Twenty good fillings in a rag I laid;
Be ten the Parson's, for my fermon paid.
The rest is yours
my spinning-wheel and rake

Let Sufan keep for her dear fister's fake;

115

120

My new ftraw hat, that 's trimly lin'd with green, 125 Let Peggy wear, for she's a damfel clean.

My leathern bottle, long in harvests try'd,
Be Grubbinol's this filver ring beside :
Three filver pennies, and a nine-pence hent,
A token kind to Bumkinet is fent."

Thus fpoke the maiden, while the mother cry'd;
And peaceful, like the harmless lamb, she dy’d.
To fhow their love, the neighbours far and near

Follow'd with wiftful look the damfel's bier.
Sprigg'd rofemary the lads and laffes bore,
While difmally the Parfon walk'd before.

130

135

Upon her grave the rosemary they threw,
The daifie, butter-flower, and endive blue.

After the good man warn'd us from his text, That none could tell whose turn would be the next; He faid, that Heaven would take her foul, no doubt, And spoke the hour-glass in her praise — quite out.

Te

To her sweet memory, flowery garlands ftrung,
O'er her now empty feat aloft were hung.
With wicker rods we fenc'd her tomb around,

145

To ward from man and beast the hallow'd ground;
Left her new grave the Parfon's cattle raze,
For both his horfe and cow the church-yard graze.
Now we trudg'd homeward to her mother's farm,
To drink new cyder mull'd, with ginger warm.
For gaffer Tread-well told us, by the by,
"Exceffive forrow is exceeding dry."

While bulls bear horns upon their curled brow,
Or laffes with foft ftroakings milk the cow;
While padling ducks the standing lake defire,
Or battening hogs roll in the finking mire;
While moles the crumbled earth in hillocks raise;
So long shall swains tell Blouzelinda's praise.
Thus wail'd the louts in melancholy strain,

Till bonny Sufan fped across the plain.
They feiz'd the lafs in apron clean array'd,
And to the ale-houfe forc'd the willing maid;
In ale and kiffes they forget their cares,
And Sufan Blouzelinda's lofs repairs.

Ver. 153.

150

155

160

"Dum juga montis aper, fluvios dum pifcis amabit, "Dumque thymo pafcentur apes, dum rore cicada, Semper honos, nomenque tuum, laudefque manebunt."

VIRG.